Best Of Makeovers Bundle Part 3

'Me neither.' And she'd been the only one in her cla.s.s not to play the piano or violin. Her mum hadn't been able to afford the lessons, let alone the instrument. She shook herself. Not now. 'So what do we do when we go out?' she asked. 'Watch films?'

'Fine. Action movies?'

Just what she'd expected him to like. Though she agreed with him, there. She liked slushy ballads, but she hated the girly films Lisa dragged her to see on the pretext that one of her friends was an extra in it. 'Star Wars,' she suggested. 'And I made Lisa come with me to one of those Lord of the Rings showings-you know, the one where they do all three films in a row, the director's cut, rather than the cinema cut. Lisa only went on condition I fed her a ton of ice cream and called her "Mrs Aragorn" for the next month.'

Max laughed. 'Oh, that's cla.s.sic. I'll remember that one next time she nags me. Anything else? What do you do in the evenings?'

'Work,' she admitted. 'You?'

'Depends. Might work late, might go to the gym, might go out for a beer with some friends.'

'Pubs and clubs?' She grimaced. 'Oh, yawn.'

'Clubbing's boring. And in those types of places I spend too much time spotting the flaws in the architecture.'

Not chatting up women? Hmm. Lisa had said Max never dated the same woman more than two or three times. He was a player. Not that it should bother Cyn. She wasn't looking at him as real boyfriend material.

'I think it's best if we say we've only been together a couple of weeks. We know the important things about each other, but we're taking time now to get to know each other a little more,' he suggested.

'Right. Hopefully they'll buy that.'

'Course they will. Just smile at me as if you're Lisa and I'm Aragorn.'

She wasn't sure if he was teasing or not; his voice was completely deadpan. Then he grinned, and Cyn relaxed. This was going to work. Max had confidence enough for both of them. And if anyone questioned them, all he had to do was grin like that. It'd scramble every female brain cell in the place, and they'd forget what they'd asked.

Cynthia Reynolds was going to return home as Cinderella-and wipe the ugly smiles off quite a few faces...

CHAPTER THREE.

BY THE time Max turned into the tree-lined drive to the country house hotel where the wedding was being held, he and Cyn had worked out enough details of their 'relations.h.i.+p' to sound convincing. But there was still something niggling him.

'Cyn?' he asked, when he'd parked.

'Mmm-hmm?'

'We're meant to be a couple. We're at the beginning of a relations.h.i.+p. People are going to expect me to put my arm round you. If you flinch, it'll be obvious that this is a set-up.'

She shook her head. 'I won't flinch.'

'How do you know?'

'I just do.'

Nope. He wasn't buying that. Especially as she wasn't actually looking at him. She clearly didn't trust her reactions, either. And he knew from business that if you didn't prepare properly, you wouldn't have a chance in h.e.l.l of getting the contract. This was the same sort of thing. 'I'd be happier if we did some preparation.'

She met his gaze, this time, and nodded. 'What did you have in mind?'

'Nothing too scary.' He released both their seat belts. 'Lean forward.'

She did, and he slid his arm round her, resting his left hand on her left shoulder.

She flinched.

'See? Do that in public, and we're in trouble.'

She sighed. 'So what do you suggest?'

'This.' He shouldn't do it, he knew he shouldn't do it. But he couldn't resist. He let his left hand slide from her shoulder to the nape of her neck. Tension radiated from her; slowly, gently, he stroked the nape of her neck.

She s.h.i.+vered, and tipped her head back ever so slightly.

It was all the invitation he needed. He bent his head and touched his mouth to hers. Lightly, like the kiss of a b.u.t.terfly's wings, just sliding his mouth along the curve of her lower lip. When she didn't pull back, he kissed her again. One light kiss at each corner of that delectable mouth, and one right in the centre.

No flinching, this time, but he definitely felt a tiny s.h.i.+ver run up her spine against his fingers.

This time, when he bent his head, his mouth coaxed hers. Tiny nibbles against her lower lip, encouraging her to open her mouth. She remained absolutely still, as if she didn't trust herself to move; then, finally, she opened her mouth under his and let him deepen the kiss.

Oh. My. G.o.d. Cyn had been kissed before, but Max was in another league. His right hand was flat against her stomach. Just resting there. No pressure, no demands; just waiting for her to make the next move. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s felt heavy and her nipples were so tight, they almost hurt. She wanted his hand to slide over her silky top, cup her breast. More, she wanted his hand to slide under her top, so they were skin to skin. She wanted his thumb to rub against her nipple. Better still, she wanted him to use his mouth. She wanted to grab his hand and place it exactly where she needed to be touched.

But they were supposed to be going to a wedding. Right here, right now. And she needed to look respectable. Cyn Reynolds, business hotshot. Except Max had just kissed all her lipstick off and she was going to look...embarra.s.sing. She did not want to get out of this car and walk into the wedding looking as if she'd been necking in the car park! Even though, technically, she had been.

She slid her hands to his shoulders and pushed.

Instantly, he stopped kissing her. Backed off.

'Cyn?' His voice was husky, his pupils were huge and there was a slash of colour across his cheekbones. Clearly he was just as turned on as she was.

'We're supposed to be going to a wedding,' she croaked.

'Yeah.'

But his gaze was still fixed on her mouth. A hungry gaze. This was a man who wanted more-much more. Panic flared through her. Not here...not now! 'We're going to be late,' she said shakily. And she'd better sort out her lipstick. Repair the damage, make herself look respectable again. She pulled the visor down, and stared in surprise at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

The lipstick was still in place.

'Something wrong?' Max asked.

'I, um, no.' How was that possible? How, when he'd kissed her so thoroughly? She sneaked a quick glance. And no, there wasn't a sc.r.a.p of lipstick on his face, either. Huh? Was this all some kind of weird dream, and her alarm was going to wake her any second?

'Cyn.'

Unwillingly, she met his gaze. 'What?'

'You don't normally wear make-up, do you?'

Hopefully, said make-up was enough to hide the colour she could feel scorching her face. 'Course I do.'

'Not for a long time, then. You can buy lipstick nowadays that's designed to stay put. And my guess is that Lisa chose that sort for you, so you wouldn't have to worry about renewing your lipstick every time you took a sip of your drink.'

'Uh-huh.'

'You look...'

Max's mouth dried. Her eyes were huge and dark; her lips were just that tiniest bit pouty. As if she'd just been kissed. As if she wanted to be kissed again. And his whole body was saying yes, yes, yes, do it!

No.

Cyn wasn't even his type-he always went out with tall skinny blondes or redheads. Probably because Gina had been little and dark and soft. Like Cyn. Too much like Cyn. He wasn't going to get in that kind of situation again. 'Stop worrying. You look fine,' he said gruffly. 'Let's go.'

Fine?

Sheesh. It was like when you were covered in teenage spots and someone told you that you had beautiful eyes or a lovely smile. They didn't mention the fact that your face looked like the moon through a half-focused telescope. Saying you looked 'fine' was just as bad as saying you looked 'nice' or 'all right'; the kind of lukewarm compliment that was given when someone felt too guilty to say that you looked terrible.

She'd wanted to look stunning.

Lisa had done her best, but she hadn't had A-cla.s.s material to work with in the first place. Too short, too plump, too...ordinary. Cyn stiffened her backbone. Well, she might look ordinary, but that didn't mean she was ordinary. She was every bit as good as her old school acquaintances. And if she was going to convince them that Max Taylor was really hers, she'd better act as if she believed it.

So she pinned a smile to her face. And when Max opened the car door for her, she let him help her put on the cute jacket that matched her skirt, then slid her arm through the crook of his. Cyn-derella Reynolds was going to the ball.

'Cynthia! h.e.l.lo, sweetie.' The redhead bore down on them and gave Cyn an air kiss. Just the kind of thing Max hated. From the brief flash of distaste on Cyn's face, it seemed as if she wasn't too keen on it, either.

'Aren't you going to introduce us to your fr...?' The other woman's over-sugared tones died as she glanced at Max. Almost, he thought, as if she didn't quite believe Cynthia had turned up to the wedding with anyone at all, let alone someone like him.

'My friend? Of course,' Cyn said politely. 'Max, this is Ella Jameson. Ella, Max Taylor.'

Max just about managed to keep the smile on his face as the redhead looked him up and down again. Checking out the fabric of his suit, the polish of his shoes, even the cut of his hair. He'd seen this before, in clients. Beneath that oh-so-sweet smile, Ella Jameson was a predator. If the rest of this pack was like that, no wonder Cyn had wanted a trophy boyfriend for the day.

'Actually, it's Ella Hopcroft-Brown,' Ella corrected. Max noted that she made sure they both saw the enormous solitaire and the wedding band on her left hand. 'So, what do you do, Max?'

At Ella's snooty tones, Max was tempted-really tempted-to claim he was a bricklayer. Had he not felt Cyn's tiny betraying s.h.i.+ver, he would have said it, too. Instead, he smiled sweetly. 'I'm an architect. I specialise in the renovation of listed buildings.'

'Oh, how interesting.'

Yeah, and he'd bet the 'interest' she had in mind wasn't cerebral. It was measured in percentage points and bank balances. Listed buildings meant serious money. That was what would make him interesting to a woman like Ella Hopcroft-Brown.

'And you're a computer operator, aren't you, Cyn?'

'Something like that.'

Max was about to leap to Cyn's defence when he heard the resignation in her tone. And Ella was already moving away, saying, 'Catch you later, sweetie. Ciao.'

'What a b.i.t.c.h,' Max muttered. 'Why didn't you tell her what you really do?'

'No point.' Cyn sounded weary. 'They all know where I did my degree. And it still doesn't make a difference, because they know where I come from. And that's where I'll always be, in their eyes. I told you before, in a village, you have your set place. And even if you change, your place doesn't.'

Which meant you didn't fit any more. On the way here, he'd accused her of having a chip on her shoulder, about being the poor-girl-made-good. Now he realised she hadn't been chippy at all. She'd been spot on. He could see the heads turning, the double takes, the little nudges and whispers. From Ella's reaction, he could guess what they were saying: 'Isn't that Cynthia Reynolds?' Then dismissive comments would follow, about how she'd been at school: the outsider.

Which she still was.

Cyn knew it, too. He could see it in her face. 'You okay?' he asked.

She gave him a smile, but he had a feeling she was close to bolting from the room. Well, he wasn't going to let her. She was going to stay, and prove to this nest of vipers that she was every bit as good as they were.

At least the older generation seemed to look more kindly on her. There were smiles and nods of recognition. And then a woman stood up and walked towards her.

Cyn's mum. Had to be. An older, plainer version of Cyn, but then she smiled. A smile full of love and pride and happiness. The kind of smile mothers reserved for their children. And her whole face changed: she was beautiful.

'Cyn! You look fabulous. Turn round.'

Cyn dutifully pirouetted.

The older woman's smile broadened. 'The colours suit you. I would've bet serious money on you wearing a grey or navy suit today.'

'Mum, please.' Cyn sounded pained.

Her mother hugged her. 'You've always been beautiful. I'm glad you're letting other people see it, too.'

'Mum.' Cyn wriggled; her expression was a mixture of embarra.s.sment and pleasure.

'Mothers are meant to embarra.s.s their children. But you do look lovely, Cyn. Very glamorous and London.' Cyn's mother squeezed her hand. 'My gorgeous girl.'

Cyn clearly wanted to distract her mother, because then she began her introductions. 'Mum, this is Max Taylor. A friend. Max, this is my mother, Stacey Reynolds.'

'Pleased to meet you.' Stacey shook his hand and smiled, but he was aware that she was a.s.sessing him. Checking that he wasn't going to hurt her little girl. She didn't say it in words, but her eyes said it for her. Treat my daughter right, or I'll break every single bone in your body. Twice.

'Pleased to meet you, too,' he said.

So where was Cyn's dad? Or maybe she didn't have one. Maybe Stacey was a widow. Or a divorcee-there were no rings on her left hand. Well, he wasn't going to push Cyn for an explanation. It was none of his business. But if his guess was right, that was another reason why Cyn hadn't fitted in. Why she'd made herself look almost invisible. It was so she wouldn't attract attention, or the negative comments that went with it.

Max decided to be polite, took part in the social chitchat-and made sure that his arm stayed firmly round Cyn's shoulders. If anyone was going to make a sly comment, they'd have to get past him first.

'I love weddings,' Stacey said as they walked into the room for the ceremony.

Cyn and Max exchanged a glance; they didn't.

When the bride flounced down the aisle, Max tightened his fingers against Cyn's shoulders. He knew the type: blonde, gorgeous, and needing to be the centre of attention, the one everyone thought as 'the best' in everything. His guess was that Mich.e.l.le Wilson had been number one in cla.s.s in everything until Cyn had come along and knocked her off the top spot academically, and Mich.e.l.le had taken her revenge by prodding Cyn where she'd been most vulnerable, making her a social outcast.

Funny. He barely knew Cyn. And here he was, wanting to take up cudgels on her behalf. Not that he was getting involved. It was just the ridiculously formal wedding atmosphere-people wearing tailcoats, top hats and corsages, and behaving as stiffly as their clothes. He'd have felt that same protectiveness about anyone in this situation-wouldn't he?

As the day went on, Cyn looked more and more trapped. But Max wasn't going to let her run from here with her tail between her legs. When she left, it would be when she chose to leave, not because she'd been driven out. And she'd walk tall when she left.

So he stuck to her side like glue. Schmoozed as if the contract of his dreams-the restoration of a huge tumbledown manor house to its original state, with an unlimited budget-was at stake. By the time the wedding breakfast was over, the speeches had been made, the bride and groom had done the first dance and everyone was chatting at the edge of the dance floor in little groups, Max had charmed every single female in the room-including the bride and her mother. He noted with satisfaction that they were all giving Cyn envious glances.